Night lay heavy over the sea as the prow cut through a dark current. Chen Wuya leaned against the rail, one hand pressed to his lower abdomen, the burning heat still coursing through his meridians. He closed his eyes for a moment. The Misaligned Force was like ashes scattered by the wind, flickering in and out.
Bai Zhi stood beneath the mast, her sword laid across her knees, her gaze sweeping the waters ahead. Mo Feng crouched at the stern, his fingers working the gears of a mechanical compass. Its needle trembled faintly, then slowly returned to its place.
The ship moved slowly. The wind had died, and the sea was like a gray mirror, reflecting neither stars nor moon.
When Chen Wuya opened his eyes, three swells suddenly rose from the waters ahead. Spray exploded as three figures leaped from the sea, scales gleaming, tailfins slapping the waves. The tridents in their hands crossed into a line, barring the ship's path.
All three were mermen, their skin tinged blue-green, gill marks visible behind their ears. They held black iron tridents, their tips aimed at the prow.
The leading merman spoke. His voice dragged on, its syllables rising and falling like tides, impossible to make out clearly.
Chen Wuya raised a hand, signaling Bai Zhi not to move. He focused and listened. Amid those strange syllables were several familiar words—"Penglai," "not allowed to go," and "worship." Their pronunciation even carried an accent from the Northern Lands.
Something stirred in his heart.
This did not sound like the language of a sea clan born to the waters. It sounded more like Central Plains speech taught to them by someone, then wrapped in a bizarre accent.
He deliberately cleared his throat and said stiffly, "We came from the southwest, under the Sea